


the world must be a hollow longing

by Ushio



Category: Fire Emblem: Soen no Kiseki/Akatsuki no Megami | Fire Emblem Path of Radiance/Radiant Dawn
Genre: Angst, F/F, Intrigue, M/M, Politics, Post-Radiant Dawn, Royalty stuff, english is not my first language sorry for any typos, i'm just trying to sort of give soren a happy ending. he deserves one, mostly "Soren has to be king of Daein and he has issues about it"
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-18
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-10-20 12:46:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10662903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ushio/pseuds/Ushio
Summary: “We are alone, Soren. You know as well as I do that laguz will never treat us right. Some of them try, Goddess know they try, but our blood drives them away. Same goes with beorc. But we are not beorc, we are not laguz — we are Children of the Goddess.” And her rage softens, much like her stance. “We are Branded. We... I, I do not want to be alone.”Micaiah's voice is small and tired. Soren is suddenly reminded of Mist and turns his head away.“I do. I relish in my solitude.”“Then I am glad for you.”A beat. A beat. A beat.Soren sighs.“What do you want? Just tell me and be straightforward about it.”She does. He, however reluctantly, understands.*When Spring arrives he is crowned King.[Soren is forced out of exile in a world devoid of Ike.]





	the world must be a hollow longing

**Author's Note:**

> hello everyone!!! aaah i'm v excited about this fic and i have a lot of ideas for it! hopefully i won't let it die because longfics are not my thing. but i've always wondered about what would happen if soren had to deal with his ascendancy. and most importantly, i want to write a soren who finds a purpose to live after ike's death. i don't know how long this will be or what turns it will take bc i only have the first chapter :P. let's discover it togeteher!!! i hope you'll like it.
> 
> the work's title is a verse from "the dream of water" by sara eliza johnson. this chapter's title is from “theory of motion (6), nocturne" by cameron awkward-rich.

Soren is stargazing in the front yard of his little cottage when she arrives. He is sitting on a wooden bench lovingly carved with laguz imagery with his back to her. Ike had spent a long time on it and Soren can still remember, sometimes, the little tune he'd used to hum. He can see it, hear it, so clearly in his mind's eye: Ike, grey and wrinkled, hunched over his workbench with his tools at hand. He remembers the way his face caught light from the hearth; the way his voice rose and fell. An old lullaby. A galdr. Mist had sung that song, too. A lifetime ago.

The stars twinkle softly and Soren feels tired; made out of memories and stretched too thin, faded, old, old, old. He sits there, face turned to the sky, when Micaiah appears with a sudden _whoosh_ a few paces behind. He has been expecting her for some time, now, and doesn't acknowledge her presence in the least. She is not welcome, after all. She should not be here. He knows the reason (news from Tellius have managed to reach this tiny village, despite distance and the language barrier), he knows, and yet—

He is not ready.

Soren presses his right hand flat against the bench and feels the wood's texture beneath his palm. With his fingers, he traces a dragon's head a thousand times traced before. He loves this house and everything within because it was something he built with Ike. Something they had created, together, out of rubble and sweat. To lose it...

“Soren. Good evening.”

He breathes in the cold nighttime air. Then he straightens his posture and turns around. She smiles at him, clutching her hands to her chest. It has been some time since he last saw her (was it around Elincia's funeral? Perhaps before?) but time has not changed her stride. She grew into herself a long time ago and nothing about her has changed since; her skin remains unmarred and her beauty is other-wordly. There is something sweet and poised about her, some sort of natural grace that most people would associate with herons. When she moves, Soren almost expects to see the ground beneath her sprout in flowerbeds.

“Micaiah,” he says, voice hoarse. He doesn't remember the last time he spoke to another human being. She smiles graciously at him and tilts her head a bit; her long, silvery locks brush her cheeks at the movement.

“You seem well. I am glad.”

“You have not changed a bit,” he rasps.

“Were you expecting me to?”

“In a way. Somehow, I always seem to forget you're Branded.”

Micaiah purses her lips slightly.

“You know how I feel about that word.”

Soren smirks, fully aware of it.

“My excuses, Your Highness. I know you have new words, now, and new laws and have built a new world... but I still live in the old one.” He meant it as a scathing remark but his own words taste like vile in his mouth. This world is so empty without Ike. So meaningless. Micaiah can see right through him and feels his mood change with an almost insulting ease. She drops her frown and approaches him, her footsteps quiet on the snow.

“You can drop the formalities,” she says, kindly, sitting next to him on the bench. Her tunic poofs around her legs and she looks a bit like one of those cream-filled pastries they got fed to in Sienne. The ever-moving evolution of beorc fashion will never cease to amaze him. Micaiah follows his eyes and giggles softly. Her laugh is sweet like a little bell.

“It seems that nobility has yet found a new way to spend money in a wasteful and superfluous manner,” he says rather dryly.

“It does look rather awful, doesn't it?”

Soren sighs.

“We should cut to the chase. We both know why you are here.”

She nods, sobering up at once. Her hand finds his on his lap and she squeezes him in an attempt to be comforting. Soren just feels a growing sickness; a growing emptiness in his gut. The sky hangs low and cold above them, as cold as the frozen earth beneath. Soren wonder if this is how seeds feel under the soil; coiled and tight and ready to spring. He wonders what could possibly flower in his long-dead body.

“I know that you would prefer to stay here. This is your home and I would never want to rob you of that. But surely you know about my great-granddaughter's fate. She was unmarried and heirless — I could still rule but the commonfolk have no need of me. There has been a new wave of hatred against our kind, spurned by a recent tragedy... it's a bit long to explain,” she sighs. And suddenly she sounds as each and every one her hundred and thirty-something years. She sounds old, old, old. Tired. Faded, stretched out too thin; Soren comprehends.

“Do they not know I am Branded too?”

“You have Ashnard's blood. Daein's blood. For them, it is enough. There have been many traditionalists who always opposed my family's rule, as well as my own. And it has come to an end. They crave blood and the knowledge of your existence has spread far and wide — they long for their lost Prince.” And surprisingly enough, there is an edge to her voice. A flair of bitterness. And Micaiah does not _do_ bitterness. She is far too sweet for such a feeling.

This clearly affects her more than she lets on.

“Did you tell them?”

“There was no need. Almedha lives still and she informed us of your whereabouts.”

At this, Soren startles and blinks a bit owlishly, surprised and disturbed.

“How could she know?”

Micaiah offers him an uncomfortable smile.

“You are watched. I don't know since when but most probably since Ike's...” She swallows the word _death_ like the earth swallowed his body, hungrily, to never return. Soren feels his blood run cold. “There is a spy in the village and they have been keeping an eye on you in Kurthnaga's steed. They communicate using some sort of crystals as far as I am concerned... and so they have informed Almedha of your state over the years.”

Soren stays quiet, running a mental checklist of every single villager who knows him and could have betrayed him like that. He feels hurt, surprisingly enough, not because he cares for them (he _does not_ ) but because he has lived here for a long time. For more than a century, now. Ike was well-loved and well-regarded in the village — they tried to appoint him mayor at least once a year. They attended every festival and helped with the weddings and the funerals and a countless heap of harvests across the years. Soren has helped deliver babies. He has sold more remedies than he can count and healed more people than he can remember. He did not loved them but he was loved. At least cared for.

Why would they agree to such a thing?

He wonders if, perhaps, people have come to fear and hate him since Ike's death. He hasn't stop by the village in a long time because he has no need to. He has lost track of the generations and the births and deaths and festivals and Goddess — _it is so tiring to keep up with beorc_. He understands laguz a bit, now. They are so frail and so short-lived and their faces mix and blurry in his mind's eye. There are too many of them. He thinks of the list over and over and he thinks _are they dead? Is Thomas dead? Is his wife? How old must his grandson be by now?_ and it hurts, somehow. It hurts to realize that life truly goes on whether Ike lives or not. The world turns. Kingdoms raise and fall.

And yet everything stays the same in every way he has ever known. Beorc and laguz never change.

(His kind do not even have a voice.)

It takes him some time to find his own voice again, shocked by the news that his _mother_ still thinks of him. The same woman who casted him away like an after-thought. The same woman who bedded a cruel, insane man. He does not want anything to do with that woman. He feels no kinship to her and he knows he never will. Never. Never will he forget the pain, the humiliation, the despair he felt as a child...

Something dark and anxious coils in his gut and he feels Ike breathe in his ear. He can hear his voice.

_Steady. Focus, Soren. Don't let it consume you._

He turns his gaze to the sky and breathes.

“Are you alright?” Micaiah asks carefully. He wonders how long has he stayed quiet.

“Yes.” _No._ He swallows down his anguish. “Is she still at Daein's Keep? My mother?”

“No. She left many a decade ago, some time after your own departure. As far as I know, she lives in Goldoa with his brother, King Kurthnaga. But she has keen ears and even sharper eyes. She is always aware of every single matter in Daein. I think—” Micaiah stumbles a bit with her words and purses her lips. She's angry, he realizes. A spark of hatred shines in her eyes. “I think she was involved in my family's demise. I believe she was responsible for my great-granddaughter's assassination.” Her voice does not waver; a deep, steep coldness seeps into her words.

Soren must admit he is rather surprised but his face remains unchanged. He's used to schooling his thoughts and reactions (a skill that will undoubtedly prove to be of great use if he were to take Micaiah's offer). But there is more to her offer, isn't? She has come here with a goal. He quirks an eyebrow at her and she responds in kind. They stare at each other for a long moment.

Something snaps.

“I will not be a pawn in your little, petty political games,” he snarls. “I escaped Tellius a long time ago; I do not belong there.”

“Your blood does. You are Daein's soul, its heir—”

“My blood has only brought me suffering and loneliness. A madwoman for a mother and a madman for a father. No,” Soren says, holding her gaze, “no, I shall not be defined by it. Nor will it tie me.”

Anger burns in his chest, fiercely bright, and he stands up just to get away from her. How dare she? How dare she intrude in his solitude, in his seclusion, in his inexorable death in this barren land?

“Leave,” he says. His eyes turn to the gentle mantle of stars, seeking guidance, companionship, a reason to _exist_ —

But the universe declines.

“Soren, listen to me. I should have phrased this differently but it's not what you think—”

“Not what I think? What _I_ think is that you came here with this great plan in mind, yes? Use me as bait to lure my mother out, make me manipulate her so she would tell you what you want to hear and then what? Get rid of me so you can take back the throne? Force me to reign against my own wishes? I am not a fool, Micaiah. I _know_ what you seek.”

“You know nothing,” she spats back, voice cold and harsh. Her eyes have a gelid shine to them, like a piece of luminous amber filled with insects. She raises and so does her grace. Queens are born, not made — there is not a single low-born bone in her body. Not one. “I want to do this in the right way, in a way you will agree with because I _care_ about you. Because I do not wish you any harm.”

He barks a sharp laugh. She does not flinch.

“We are alone, Soren. You know as well as I do that laguz will never treat us right. Some of them try, Goddess know they try, but our blood drives them away. Same goes with beorc. But we are not beorc, we are not laguz — we are Children of the Goddess.” And her rage softens, much like her stance. “We are Branded. We... _I_ , I do not want to be alone.”

Micaiah's voice is small and tired. Soren is suddenly reminded of Mist and turns his head away.

“I do. I relish in my solitude.”

“Then I am glad for you.”

A beat. A beat. A beat.

Soren sighs.

“What do you _want?_ Just tell me and be straightforward about it.”

She does. He, however reluctantly, understands.

The next morning, he is gone.

(He makes sure to close the house first. To cover everything in sheets and dust carefully and take with him everything he would miss. He promises to himself that one day he shall return here. But deep down he knows the truth.

His fingers graze the wooden workbench where Ike used to work. He traces a dragon's head a thousand times traced before. Ike's arms surround him and shield him and uplift him to somewhere warmer. He can hear his voice.

_I will wait for you._

He leaves the house and spares one last glance to the dirty, grey snow.

The teleportation staff that Micaiah left has him in Nevassa in less than a minute.

It is done.)

 

* * *

 

When Spring arrives he is crowned King.

 

 


End file.
